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Sandbox: Act of Will part 2
from Act of Will by Will Dockery II: My Wayward Muse To the Sea Angel Riptide waves, there goes the sea angel, right above the waves. These mystery years, where would I be without them? What if I'd stayed happy? Years lost, these last few I've played catch up, drifting from the shore. Barnacles on an olive shell, brain choral in my mind. Instrumental tune, made by the incoming waves. I tossed a starfish back in, watched it twirl away, and thought of you. 1997 Sunglass This battered old shell looks like a death mask. Lucky or not I shall wear it as I walk into Phenix City. Though I cheated in my gambling I wound up broke anyway. And I come, and I pay the zombie whores and walking dead. While the dark lady in sunglasses takes the halo from his clay head. One more trip over that bridge to the kissing booth. Where there's smoke there may be fire and this time I got burned. I walk this beach at midnight like a zen dharma beach bum. And I am saved, and I turn. I watch the drunken poets, and my lawyer while the dark lady in sunglasses takes the halo from his clay head. 2003 Wave We met some shimmering June, then things got very dark. We killed our love, almost killed the moon, but here's three hexes for your lover anyway. Remember those good days, we had a few. Yes those days will come again, we can tell each other about them, some day. Crack street, where the water runs through and things get very dark. Green Ringlets on my mind, high tide coming in, I threw an evil index in a bottle into it. Smoky blue horizon, wave crash sound. Black streamers of cloud over the moon, I'll tell you about it one day. 1999 Coil This coil of pain memory burns with flashing image and haunting misses. Distinct dream vision mixed up with consciousness train seems right on top of me conductor has an agenda. Only the god see beyond this veil I saw those eyes red blazing shaking. No time to think, no desire to. There seems to be a wide awake slow ride conciousness carries stretches through these years these days . . . this minute as if the night could purify rather than corrupt my reptilian hands my repetition in signs. 1999 Silver Glassy Rain Who are you, anyway? Are you the girl that rode the horse out there in the mythical little planet, seen here and there? You called my Angex a queer little thing; that little thing is death. It clattered outside my grandmother's kitchen window in the dusty driveway, on a slamming clattering Alabama night. Trouble in paradise, Corbin and Birdface arguing on the spiral staircase. I just walked, on my way to the rock shop, to maybe say hello to Balek. No hook to this thought, exactly, this queer little thing, fhis double typewrite situation, this funky friendship of the writerly production. Me and my father parked on the seven mile road once, the time the carload of relatives was going home in the years of fine, when stolen cans of beer tasted like bitter wine, in the days of old. A Ladonia gas station called Mojo with inverted dice in its logo, in the days young and blind when I was out of my childhood mind, in the days of '67. Is the Antenna Head still with us, among the living? Or has his system finally given in, heart stopped like other organs have already, like his heart stopped when he heard Coralizard had dyed her hair black? Last time I saw him. So long since we both prowled the Avenue of Defeat, the brain baby, the blue baby, two beatnik babies in the nursery, we were born about a day apart from each other, that was in '58, such a funky world to have come right into. You seem sad and you are my friend but there's nothing I can do to stop it, I know pretty well your Taurus brain, it's gotta do what it has to do. I know better than to try and change you, man. But back to you, who are you anyway, girl? He's a May baby, a blue baby, you are indeed the statuesque beauty blindfolded that my cards told me about, maybe. Two readings on two genres of somehow magic cards, and you show up in both. I can track the evidence down, you know. How the Hell does that happen? 1997 A Green Glow at Midnight Stopped at your meeting small stone and that same green candle and again I joined the circle. As a guest I spoke and later an audience with you in your bed. As the time reaches Midnight these Christmas bells and frozen molecules on the grey skyline dipped with shadow. The streets this reckless empire my heart is in homage to you overflowing and free. With the moon glow on the rocks memory in my mind hesitates and supplies on demand. 2017 Commodore What was it you said that rang out to me yesterday and when did you say it and why..? I don't really know when or why or even what now. But it has hurt, and it has affected our future whatever that may or may not have been. 2002 Tuesday With Little Spain And I am shoved back into this night life. Well, she said, she said, she said it was impossible. There is a place, it smoulders, it is the past, dreamtime, wander these dark corridors of memory. I sleep so deep, I don't like to sleep, my dreams threaten to take me away. Floating in a sea of bad vibes, I do these things over and over, repentatively, feel regret but keep doing it over and over. Then the whole thing becomes a blur. Grey and pasted, patched together with spackling and sheet rock mud, a disgusted perversion of humanity. During the decline and fall of poetry, in the summer of sardonic excess, I sat with Little Spain on her steps, and felt her softness. Still a sky poet, though tattered and glowing, brought down from Blue Territory, no longer in Blue Territory, I wandered by a cold river in the flaming copper land of summer. This complete process of remaking we had, your mix of pales and shades, your distinctive, mythic self, one distinct song of your eyes . . . I must bitterly understand our fate, we were never meant to be, Like lost in the mirrored rooms of a crazy house. Crimson on the napkins, pink fuzz on the clover. Maneuver to the left, and forward, into a mud soaked future. 1997 Watermelon Moon I'm going to slug this thing out to the bitter bloody end. The wheels have turned too fast but gone nowhere for too long. Snow collects on the windows and this summer will only twist it. Tried my best for the entire game just to keep the lights on. This morning I was looking looking over the river. At the blueness of early morning springtime. And through other eyes I saw how others also needed . . . your touch. Hope they find what it is they need. But when you look into the mirror and you see those green eyes staring yourself right back. And you don't find something to love. Just remember others do and we hang around for free. Because there's nobody else quite like you. What I said and thought were two totally different things. I ran it all through a filter wish I could somehow get inside you with it. And flag down that lonely rider that rides inside your soul. Paying in blood for what got lost. What we will never find again. Strange waters in your thoughts like dying watercolors. With a wicked witless witness hair slinging to her sides. Memories whisper like ancient specters in some grave. How can I water your moonlight or alter it? Your body curled in creamy thin spindles. My poetry exposed at last all we did was eat watermelon and drink rancid wines. But I never wanted to lose the sparks we once shared. Look at me I have a crown of thorns on my heart now. But you still find nothing there to love? Your lips on a cigarette smoke flutters across your face. Smoke rising in textured streams like southern winds twisting. With a twisted scorn of youth a taste of honey on your lips, those black beauties you ride on your amphetamine trips. 1976 Corning Town I'm out walking again, ignoring the pain. Living like a poor boy again, streets and sheets of rain. In the early twilight, dewdrops on the glass. Her lazy hazy sway, through Midsummer past. She's still there, in her underwear. But my mem'ry and I can't make contact again. Where ever you've been or what you're doing while you're there. I just can't concern myself, or pretend I care. Under a jinx, black cloud of Charlie Brown. Sometimes I'm up, most times I'm back down. Deep river monkey anyway you look at it. Just too concerned, to let her go. Looking through a mirror somewhere in Shadowville. Pocket full of quarters, payphone is my thrill. Knocking the Union, seen serpents fall. Out in the distance, among the croaking frogs. Deep river monkey, across the divide. This is the year, we shall be blamed. Fair thee well my butterfly, I'm bound for Corning Town. Let me watch your eyes smile, for a minute or two. That's not me, I'm not on YouTube no more. Some other Touchdown Jesus, is breaking her heart. Bon voyage, my Bluebird Girl, I'll hit the road a while. Up to Russell County, with the little red fox. Mist in the snow, mist in the snow. Missed her I know, on these shaky streets. I'm out walking again, ignoring the pain. Living like a poor boy, streets and sheets of rain. In the early twilight, dewdrops on the glass. Her lazy hazy sway, through a sweet summer past. 2018 Mari She's got a dress, blue with yellow stars, blues and yellows and their mixture like a space duel, a little green hair-holder in back. Her stare is blue, strands of gold hair hanging. We stand staring as bombs explode in the distance out by the sunset. This is not really as it seems, is it? This is more than a balcony, and you're more than a woman. I saw Brookwood demolished, and I thought about that damned ball and chain, tasted the ancient dust and I do remember Her dress had these symbols . . . starlike squiggles, the flame had affected her some . . . I saw the multicolored fire, it skipped frantically across a landscape. This is not really a balcony, and you're more than a woman. I felt the softness, the misty air was choking and warm. Colors: lavender, amber, sky blue . . . Stencil writings . . . Bricks and scratchy sheetrock that squeaks beneath it all, the animals all taking on a color of wonder . . . This is not really what it seems, is it? This is no more than a balcony, and you're only a woman . . . 1982 Modern Memory In the morning In the moment All the rage Fight back with passion Fucking the hookers Was a fuck you to her And those caught in Friendly fire That burns cold and dark In modern times. 2017 Skirt of Printed Sunflowers Girl of these woods and chemicals, we labor for the black pigs of poetry, for the bone gods of the sea, for the secret rose you keep for me, under your skirts of printed sunflowers. There is a hollering and someone has a dog that barks, your eyes have that recently crying look, and your hair seems as soft and your smell as sweet, as before, as that last time you came to my door, in a skirt of printed sunflowers. But it has been seen that you look straight through, I fear that you are already gone, that night you tried to die in my arms, is something that I will not forget or make sense of, you and your skirt of printed sunflowers. I think that you no longer see nothing, and God knows what kind of love is this, you told me that you never stopped loving me, but you could never return to me in your skirt of sunflowers in your skirt of printed sunflowers. 20i5 Conversational Abyss We never spoke of many things ever again. So the conversation drifts Waiting for the answer into infinity. 2002 Nightmare Tears Spanish guitar flutters. It was 1895 or so I was in a nightmare. I met my bride on Saint George Street sweet brown nameless bride. In the big clapboard city market house train station dream place. Her eyes and smile her sparkle of wit my dream wife. We sit with happy conversation. Across the huge room I see the drunken unreconstructed rebel. Swearing and pushing people. I nod to her that it's time for us to slide. We cut through the side room crowded bar area. I look back my heart sinks She is not behind me. I don't see her anywhere among these happy ghosts. I step out on this street waiting looking no sign of her. I step back in. Coming through the opposite far entrance I see The parade of proud Klansmen. It all becomes clear to me they took her. My sweet smiling nameless bride. I step back onto Saint George street. Salt breeze and fish smell in the air. I sit with a group of fellow ghosts beaten and grey under an awning and I cry. Floods and torrents of tears as Spanish guitar flutters. 2018 Picture Book Stares Back Until 21 years later you wake up and it is all like a long ago nightmare. Too late to repair no apologies will ever be enough. Nothing left but a brave face laughing at the beautiful evil. 2017 Looked All Over Walked through the rain to the telephone it was cold outside winter you know so I knew it would be this way. I was looking out that busted up window and knew that the phone call was needed but it was cold outside and raining. Got blown by that misty rain driven off days to find her but she was as missing as possible. Tried every place I could think of which in hindsight was not that many. I forget sometimes just how big a city can be. She was missing Possibly insane. I even talked with her dad who said nothing. I looked all over couldn't see the forest for the trees. I looked all over a frozen wall of emotions between then and me. I looked all over but it was actually over before I even began. Heated up a can of soup in the apartment. Stirred in some bizarre leftovers. There was a knock on my door. It was Berg who was cackling and crazed laughing about somebody who had given him a ride. I had to go to the telephone into the rain to try and find her. I talked to the police who could only speak of death. I looked all over looked up to the sky as the rain came down. I looked all over watched the searchlights at the used car lot. I looked all over would have been nice, to know what her family knew. 1983 Tired of Waiting You tired of walking streets where we waited for you. Cruel daybreak tortures me with sound and memory of your streetcorner smile. Dreams reveal too much to remember: From black seedless midnight to feverish broad daylight you never get older. You stand in the dark dark side of the cold Spring is trapped in the crystal. 2018 Karma Bombs The document falls apart nothing left to say. Dreams fall apart not so easy to face. When the one I love is gone to stay. Carefully try to walk the line then the whole thing falls apart. Feeling wounded and lonesome feel it straight inside my heart. I have been exiled from the main place in this town where I had a forum. Darkness despair and la de-da de-da it's a swirling raging storm. I woke up this morning looked at the grounds around the shed. The trees with vines that don't let much sun in. They told me it was okay for a man to cry it still feels strange. It's obvious he slaps you around some I thought of you in pain. Look out my friend Karma's coming down. It's got you now threefold inside you. Karma Bombs they fry and flow. It lasts for generations you must responsibility. Peace please for the common good. You look so good I want to eat you. Witty amusing eye candy. Smudge the sage after a blackberry lunch sweet magnolia and honeysuckle. I will personally mail the curses to anyone who mistreats you. Little storm it rained in torrents. We ponder the negro nude painting. Your prime lips trap of lust. Tropic look out little peace Karma's coming. It's got you now threefold inside you. Look out my friend Karma's coming down. It's got you now threefold inside you. Karma Bombs they fry and flow. It lasts for generations, responsibility. Karma Bombs rat tap on your head. Foam washes mermaids to shore. 1998 This Little Game Well This is one of the damnedest little games I've ever been in. No way out not even inside. Will the mist lift? will the shade shift? 2003 Winterworld Descending 1. Stopwatch My wayward muse, I am still in the bewilderness. Leave it to me, A mute passing notes to a blind man. Time has a demand - she's yelling Through shutdown clocks frozen at noon. The memories here are snow dust Under a low rust moon. Time for Winterworld descending - Ignite time with a Werewolf bullet so slow, Flaky leaves spinning by me, Past the ceramic building down below. In front of a wet breeze I think its time to leave your smile. Even if I am wrong, Please sit by me for a little while. Time to draw another picture, Manufacture memories forever gone. Somewhere on some red October morning, We'll meet on that field, alone. 2. She Loves Bossa Nova She loves Bossa Nova rare steaks rain sticks Sinatra And red red wine. She's real and sometimes sparks with spoken words spoken loud. Just like the Statue of Liberty. Standing tall and proud Along the long way long way around. Brown sugar baby backyard blues Maybe it was intimidation quiet infatuation. I was coming down home fell down, down, down into silver blazing dawn. On the long way overheard on the sidewalk she said "I love you." somehow I did not understand. Overheard on the street out on the sidewalk taking the long way long way around. I didn't know she was crying. I didn't think it'd be that way didn't think she would get so serious. The guitar played C, D, ... She likes city lights she could name all the Saints. And the darkness she said it made her so lonely. She loves Bossa Nova rare steaks rain sticks Sinatra And red red wine On the long way long way around. 3. Black and Blue Night I know I'll never see blue eyes again. In fact I may never see anything again In this corridor of memory and dream I saw someone slipping in On a black and blue night poker faced with tears blinding my sight on a black and blue night I pull the shutters crank up that light Something in here and I want it in plain sight. She walks with me like Jesus used to do in a shivering rendezvous On a black and blue night raining again and it's blinding my sight on a black and blue night Never seen a place like Hazelton pirouetting hoodlums dancing round never seen such a dirty town She said we must do something for the cause sacrifice the ghost of Santa Claus To fit the battle of Jericho Toss the gauntlet and the ass's jaw On a black and blue night . . . 4. Swamp Street Exile Winterworld descends Night owl on my back. Your eyes are bleary you won't be coming back. Time . . . Demands She's yelling. Shut down clocks at Noon. In front of the Dead River time to leave your smile. If I'm wrong dear lady Come sit with me a while. Memories . . . like Snowdust. Swamp Street Exile tune. Draw another picture Of a perfect storm, A red October morning, A field forever gone. My wayward muse, Leave it all to me. Still in the bewilderness Still too blind to see. Time demands, she's yelling shutdown clocks at noon. Memories like snowdust Frozen Stopwatch moon. 2007-2016 Chorus Two Let it drop watch it fall slowly. It'll break into a thousand pieces. Am I small enough to take a piece and run? As the waves carry me along these thoughts can be ignored until I'm back from the edge, back again. Let the sun burn away those layers of skin that felt your touch. Let the water soak in and renew. Let the open sound wash my mind so the cutting words and jagged vibes are a fading memory. 2003 Shadowville Almost over, almost back to Shadowville. Leaving the land of the sky poets, rainbow dreamtown. After all this, I mumble in my sleep, after all this comes the high tide, last spark of beauty, to steel me for my grim return. Back to Shadowville, where the women can't be trusted, they'll make a man do anything from fornication to murder, even turn him into a pimp. Almost over, almost back to Shadowville. 2002 Life during Reconstruction And after a certain point it was like blow on my dice. I want to roll them go ahead and see just how bad it can get in this black, and blue night. Help it along show me the code for that secret madrigal. Well when she died it changed a lot like that song about becoming stardust and golden. Just an abstract concept on another level. Then any hope of a happy ending was set. Nothing but hellos and dream tears the Gods made that choice. Doom! My pain, you'll never know that I found impossible trying to get over to rise above. My feet walk until they are sore over in the suburbs. Old Corning Town across state line and Georgia law across old Dillingham bridge.. Yours will forever elude me my Lady Katherine your eternal beauty sidewalk spinner. In the eternal wobbling and your claims of love never acted on... And is it really tragic watching it burn from on high up on Wright Road or just my self pity my self hatred. Just another dirt track demon buried behind a smile and a tattoo on his arm that says "Maybe" a little of both probably. Like Rag Picker Joe on crutches. I was betrayed heartbroken banked out on the Speedway a dozen times. With a hundred putrid metaphors of course I never counted before the final one. I reckon this one hit the nerve holding the handle with a suitcase to Hades.. Until you ascended and I found myself free. farmed out of senior service of Her Majesty. The Angel of Esquiline Hill sweet dark angel of the ozone stigmata... The slick red mud of the river bank Twilight Girl But I never wanted this freedom. This drifting on a black sea throwing dice and coins phantom gunboat in an underwater railroad. While you sleep tight with the fishes. No light in sight And none expected. 2017 Ritual Memory If these words of love fell into bad timing put it away like a flower in a book. This place has become a valley all is lost here in the rain. but I am older and wiser and understand the tricks of life. How sadness and soft light are a natural form of life. As is cold rain in the later part of November. I feel so old yet not wise foolhardy as the day I was born. Put me away. I make a better memory. I will not rip it out of here it is an honest poem. So I will not edit it why would I even want to do that? 2003 River Haiku The river waits for no man Blue tower glitters Her little raft floats by. 2017 Twilight Girl Six or six thousand we will meet again. At blazing dusk or quiet dawn. On that shore . . . again. This is the wait: the weight of the world comes down sweet and heavy Twilight Girl. On that quiet morning clear, crispy light. Seeing a movie from a distance mourning in front of her flight. This is the wait: the weight of the world comes down sweet and heavy Twilight Girl. She offered me her cup asked me to fill it up I said "Later, babe. Right now we have to talk untangle the chakra that crosses over." Ghost horses from the car ahead looks like engine exhaust. Blink my eyes through bitter tears, a smile for what we've lost. This is the wait: the weight of the world comes down sweet and heavy Twilight Girl. 2014 Deep Blue Sassafras You never left: As another day passes your love my love continues. You sleep or you wander, depending on the chosen myth. But those deep blue flowers in a box, the color of your eyes, the deep blue flowers I found blooming in the lumber yard, that I brought to you that summer morning in 1982, the flowers that smelled like sassafras, like you, never leave my thoughts day in, day out. 2018